Recipe for Eagle Cove, page 13
Becky did one of her cute-as-all-get-out blushes, “Dylan McDermott in The Practice. Total dreamboat during my lonely teen years. I own the complete set, all eight seasons. How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“The legal thing.”
“By shutting off my heart.”
She stuttered to a stop in switches and turned to face him. This aisle smelled vaguely of burnt rubber. Or bad electrical smells. Carbon arcing or some such.
His spontaneous answer lay there between them on the scuffed cement floor mud-tracked to a dull brown. Harry closed his eyes. He so didn’t want to face this. He enjoyed his job and he was really good at it. Honestly he did, especially as long as he kept telling himself that.
“Ehhhh!” Becky made a harsh, penalty-buzzer noise. “Try again, Counselor. This girl knows better. Frankly, if I was you, I’d sue the dude who said that. Now give me another bite of ice cream. I think you’ve been hogging it.”
He dipped in the plastic spoon and fed her another bite.
“Yum!” Then she turned and continued their slow pace along the aisle, leading him away from the site of his vomiting out his darkest secret. It was how he got through so many cases. Focus on the law. Precedent, code, procedural errors. Ignore the facts because attorney-client privilege protects the client no matter how much you know them to be guilty. How many times had he held proof of fraud in his hands and tried to figure out a way to be sure that opposing counsel didn’t know it existed but without, quite, breaking the rules of discovery? Probably about the same number of times as opposing counsel had done the same.
Becky Billings had just told him he still had a heart, and then made no big deal out of it.
All the way back down to the coast and out to Eagle Cove he tried to juggle the facets of the situation, but they weren’t coming together. Normally he was the one who could take the turbulent mass of evidence, testimony, and the law and find a way to create a coherent presentation that an everyman jury could follow and at least think they understood.
How he and Becky Billings could possibly fit together was not one of those situations.
By the time they arrived back at the brewery, there was just time to clean up and go to their fancy dinner. He was thankful that there was something to occupy them.
He dressed in the suit he’d worn to Greg’s wedding, and felt moderately ridiculous, but it was either that or beige wool gabardine on which you could still see the outline of a Wellington boot print.
Harry half hoped that Becky would opt once more for the little black dress, even if the evening was chilly for that. He really would enjoy taking it back off her later tonight.
Instead, she dressed in a black satin blouse and form-hugging slacks that made her legs look long and her hips look almost as sexy as he knew they were. She only wore the lighter brace, which had disappeared under the slacks. She accented the outfit with…
Harry laughed. He couldn’t help himself, it was just knocked out of him.
Becky wore his missing Oregon Ducks silk tie. The greens and golds somehow drew out the color of her eyes, her lips, and her hair. She wore it like a loose cravat before it disappeared into the blouse. It was only too easy to imagine the tie running out of sight down her cleavage.
“Inside or outside the bra?”
“That is a question that you’ll have to solve later, Counselor, if you get lucky that is.”
“Well, if my little brother cooks even half as well as everyone says, I have high hopes.”
“He cooks better.” Then Becky groaned with disgust as she picked up her crutches.
Harry hurried forward to get ahead of her going down the stairs in case she lost her balance and needed rescuing.
She didn’t.
But she did look spectacular climbing into his car.
“I don’t know how to do this.” Harry held the car door for her, but Becky didn’t climb out. She didn’t know how to face her friends through a whole dinner at The Puffin. She didn’t know how to sit across from Harry and not have every emotion in her heart splatter out for all to see.
“You release the seatbelt. Then you swing out one leg. After that—”
Her baleful glare apparently got the message across.
He squatted down so that they were eye to eye. Of course, he had to be a considerate guy on top of being kind. She couldn’t find any anger against him. Against the circumstances that surrounded them? Easy! But not against Harry Slater.
“For days I’ve been looking forward to taking you to a fine dinner. The fact that it’s made by my little brother,” he made a grimace like he’d bitten a lemon, but he kept the tone light and funny and added a wry smile that made her want to kiss it so that she could be a part of that smile as well, “is an issue that can’t be helped.”
“Why?”
“Because dining out with a beautiful woman who I care so much about just sounds like a really good idea.”
Who I care so much about. She studied his eyes and ignored the curious looks they were receiving from others walking along the sidewalk toward the diner. He did care about her; she knew that. So why did it keep surprising her? A man like Harry wasn’t likely to use any stronger words. That seemed to be part of their unspoken agreement—she hadn’t used the L-word either. Heaven help her though, she couldn’t imagine ever loving another man the way she loved Harry Slater.
“So, I have an idea,” he continued to balance easily in a squat she couldn’t even do any more.
“Thank heavens.”
“There are two legal terms I can think of to apply to this matter,” again that melting smile of his, “should it so please the court.”
It took an effort, but Becky pulled on the mental cloak of their game of her being the court and he the counselor.
“The first,” Harry continued apparently oblivious to how hard this was, “is de novo. It means ‘as if new.’ An appellate review de novo is one made without consideration of the trial judge’s ruling. The other is pro tem which is a fancy way to say ‘only temporarily.’ What if we declare tonight to be dinner de novo pro tem?”
Or maybe Harry did understand how hard this was. Maybe he too felt the pressure of the outside world that was squeezing in upon their idyll.
“Dining de novo pro tem?” She like the way that sounded. Dinner as if new, at least for the moment.
He nodded and held out his hand to assist her from the car.
“Just us. Ignore the world.”
“Just us,” he took her hand and with that connection made, she could do nothing other than slide free of the car.
Unable to take her hand because of the cursed crutches, he instead looped a hand about her elbow as they proceeded to The Puffin, climbed the steps, and went inside.
Becky’s gasp of wonder almost pulled Harry out of their fragile bubble. It was as if he could see the edges crackle, and then ease back together.
The battered Puffin Diner had been transformed into The Puffin. Instead of bright fluorescents, twinkle lights were draped across the ceiling like stars. The Formica tables, so scuffed with age that they were almost colorless, had been lined up into two long communal-style tables and covered with tablecloths of midnight blue. Fat white candles set on crystal dishes cast small pools of light over shining silverware and pale blue linen napkins.
Harry ducked into the back room to grab a footstool to support Becky’s leg, and helped her settle in the seat farthest from the service window and kitchen. For a moment he was afraid that some local would take the next set of seats along the table, but two out-of-town couples sat in the next four chairs. It was rapidly apparent that they were friends on their journey south, enjoying a fine meal before getting on the road again. They were as content to ignore he and Becky as they themselves were glad to be ignored.
He scooted one of the candles until it lit just their portion of the table and left a line of soft shadow between them and the rest of the long table. With the darkened window to their other side, they were almost alone in the entire restaurant except for their candle-warmed reflections.
“Haven’t you been here for dinner?” Becky was looking around like a child gawking at a circus.
“Only in the beginning. Greg started out by inviting a few friends over to test dishes on. We’d all kick in ten bucks, except me, I’d kick in a case of beer. But since he took it upscale, it’s out of my price range.”
“Methinks the court is fibbing.” Her tone definitely didn’t ring true.
She fiddled with a salad fork but didn’t answer.
“You came!” Greg blasted through the side of their little sanctuary. He was almost unrecognizable in his immaculate white chef’s coat. He clasped Becky’s hand in delight then turned to Harry, “Good job, bro. She’s been very resistant. I’m gonna knock your socks off, Becky.” He gave her hand a final squeeze and disappeared again.
“Now I know the court is fibbing.”
Becky toyed with her fork some more, but finally answered. “Greg doesn’t serve his meals with wine, he serves them exclusively with Billings beers. I used to come and do the ‘beer talk’ at the dinners, but as he got better and better, I felt more and more out of my league. I finally begged off.”
Which Harry’s courtroom sense told him was only half the story, so he waited.
“Well look,” Becky finally looked up at his eyes, but gestured down the table.
He did and it only took a moment to see what she was talking about. There were a few family groups, but this was definitely a couples’ restaurant. He’d run into those in New Orleans and learned the power of taking a date to one that felt like this, but she was right—he never ate in them alone.
“Point taken. But tonight is good, isn’t it?” How pitiful was it that he was begging to have his ego stroked that he was doing this right?
And her radiant smile did exactly that. “It is, Harry. This is very good.”
The first course arrived. Delicate sushi rolls of crab, salmon, and butternut squash. It seemed an odd combo until dipped into the spicy black bean sauce. It was paired with an ale so light and delicate that it was almost saki-like in its clarity and was served in tiny coffee cups.
“Yours?”
Becky nodded, then closed her eyes. He could practically see her comparing and cataloging flavor profiles.
“Need a notebook?”
Becky almost snorted the beer as she tried to cover her laugh.
“No. I think I’m fairly happy with this one. I’d like to find a few more floral notes, but I’d be afraid to ruin it.”
“Rose petals,” he teased her.
“No, but maybe dandelion.”
“I forgot. You don’t joke about brewing.”
“Never,” she sipped again at the tiny cup of beer. “What don’t you ever joke about?”
“Well, by the very nature of my job I’m the butt of the largest segment of jokes ever told. But I’ve learned that there are certain topics not to ever joke about with others: money with corporate types, and guilt or innocence with the obviously guilty. Though that isn’t a bad way to find out if your client actually is guilty when they’re playing coy.”
Becky’s laugh was appreciative and the bubble of their little sanctuary grew stronger and more solid. When they were served the butternut squash soup with wild mushroom and pancetta tortellini and paired with Barn Door Red Ale, it barely impinged on their awareness. The nuttiness of the beer complemented the hint of walnut in the pasta.
He tipped his beer toward her to acknowledge it.
“What else?” Becky bowed her head briefly at his accolade. She had a real modesty about putting herself forward, but none about the amazing quality of her beer.
“Never joke with anyone about the fact that the increased idiocy of their case is only going to augment the exorbitant size of your fee—no matter that it’s absolutely true.”
Becky was the most willing of listeners.
“And never, ever, under any circumstances, joke about a woman’s hair, clothes, or anything whatsoever to do with marriage.”
Her expression froze despite the warm candlelight.
And if he could remove his foot from his mouth surgically he would do so.
He could see Becky dig in and struggle to bail him out of his own stupidity, but there was no helping him this time. He’d shattered the illusion and they were once again sitting in an old diner built in a ridiculously small coastal town. The buzz of conversation along the two tables only made the stark silence at their end all the more painful.
Becky hadn’t let herself think that word. She’d built fortress walls around it every time she looked at Greg or Jessica and saw how insanely happy they were. It was fine for them, but she couldn’t imagine it for the Becky Billings of the world. The bolt of raw envy knocked her speechless.
Harry had given her a glimpse of what was possible. It was no more than that, but it was like a tiny taste of a perfect beer, and then never again being permitted to have any.
But this dinner, this moment was so precious that she didn’t want to mar it with her own issues. She scrambled around for a tease and felt a wave of relief when she finally found one.
“What’s wrong with my hair?”
Harry’s jaw simply dropped. He didn’t laugh like he was supposed to, or struggle to backpedal which also would have been okay. He didn’t even take the obvious opportunity to pay her a compliment. She had been too self-conscious with him in the room to spend much time fixing it up (another disadvantage to an open floor plan), but still she’d thought it looked nice brushed out over her shoulders with a simple copper barrette holding it back to one side.
Instead, he looked at her with such warmth that she could feel heat rising into her cheeks.
“You are, without contention, Becky, the most amazing woman ever.”
She had to look down at the table and study her empty bowl. Between one eyeblink and the next, the bowl was slid away and a fillet of bright pink-orange salmon surrounded by crab-stuffed mushroom caps took its place. A light sauce of rice wine vinegar and dill was balanced by the tartar sauce built into the mushrooms.
The unexpected pairing of her sweet and malty Deep Ocean Bock was…incredible.
“This is how you make me feel,” she forced herself to look back up at Harry.
“I do?” He inspected his dish with a puzzled frown.
“Yes, you do. You make me feel incredible enough that I can almost believe it.”
“You should. You absolutely should.”
The rest of the meal passed in soft tones and meaningless conversation.
And the rest of the night passed in soft tones and meaningful lovemaking that permanently changed the way she’d ever think of herself again.
Chapter 10
Harry woke early on Monday. It was dark and the rain that had been a soft background to their Sunday had been replaced by a heavy drencher. It pounded down on the barn’s tin roof and pinged off the glass of the skylight. Stiff gusts of wind slapped it against the seaward windows like a thousand ball bearings dumped on a sheet of steel.
He didn’t need to reach out to know that he was alone in Becky’s big bed; it felt different when she wasn’t there.
Saturday night after the dinner, he’d kidnapped the stout white candle from the table.
Becky had accused him of malfeasance aforethought and he hadn’t denied the charge. But she’d also cooed with pleasure when he’d relit it in her hayloft apartment. He’d made love to her—there was no longer any way he could just call it sex—trying to outlast the slow-burning candle.
It was still burning when they finally slept curled tightly together.
Sunday they’d left the bed only for food and a shared bath in the big tub. They’d stretched out together and watched a half dozen episodes of The Practice on Becky’s computer and he had to admit that with the attractive distractions of LisaGay Hamilton and Kelli Williams, the show wasn’t that far off the mark.
At dusk, they’d relit the candle, but neither of them had been up for much, neither physically nor conversationally. Mostly they’d lain together and held on tightly.
And now, Monday, he’d woken alone. The candle had burned out and the only light was a soft glow coming up the stairs from the brewery.
He felt positively somnolent as he moved through the morning’s actions: making the bed, brushing his teeth, getting dressed, packing his bag. It was as if someone else was performing the actions, especially the last.
Harry didn’t want to go, but it was time.
I get through it by shutting off my heart.
So he did. Each piece of clothing held a memory. Ripped khakis from unloading her truck. A bleached spot on a dark blue Armani shirt where cleaning solution had splashed while he helped her scrub one of the tanks. The dried mud that had filled every little hole in his Allen Edmonds Oxfords. At least the Nikes were dry, mostly.
He barely managed to hold it together when he found the Oregon Ducks tie tucked into the pocket of his suit. He’d worn it to the wedding as a tease to his brother who had gone to culinary school rather than college, but it had become a real thing with Becky. It was the only clothing she’d worn for most of their stolen Sunday together. He zipped it into the suiter bag along with the Michael Kors gray two-piecer that he’d worn to that cozy dinner.
He’d been using the extra toothbrush that he’d found that first night while Becky had slept on the couch below. The decision on whether he should take it or leave it was nearly the final straw.
I get through it by…
Talk about a sucky mantra. Those things were supposed to be uplifting, weren’t they?
He moved down the stairs quietly and set his bags by the door before going to find Becky. He located her deep in the brewery. She was leaning against the copper cooking kettle right where they’d taken each other like it was the best thing in the—
I get through it…
He stopped only a few feet away, but couldn’t move closer.
She faced away from him. Her head hung down and her shoulders were shaking.
